The narrator, a queer Vietnamese‑American raised in Hartford, stitches together fragmented memories of physical abuse, cultural dislocation and artistic escape, using the monarch‑butterfly migration as a metaphor for the family’s intergenerational trauma. He recalls his schizophrenic grandmother Lan—who fled an arranged marriage and survived a 1968 checkpoint massacre—his mother Ma’s harsh attempts to Americanize him, and the revelation that the kindly grandfather Paul is not his biological forebear. A teenage stint on a Connecticut tobacco farm brings him into a volatile, sexually charged bond with the reckless sixteen‑year‑old Trevor, whose violent games and drug addiction become the axis of the narrator’s coming‑of‑age and queer awakening. Trevor’s sudden death, followed by Lan’s terminal bone‑cancer and burial in Vietnam, force the narrator to confront a cascade of losses—including friends’ overdoses, his mother’s secret abortions, and his own artistic isolation—while writing letters that catalog the lingering pain. In the wake of these tragedies he returns to the “table” of memory, where the monarch’s flight and the kipuka of surviving fragments suggest that, despite the shattered past, the trauma that binds his family endures across continents.